Felicity Kendall's Knickers

I want to live in Byron Shire, where:
I will not wear shoes anymore, except for when the occasion calls for stilletos;
I will grow my own vegies;
I will visit community markets and sit under the shade of large fig trees in the company of people wearing Patchouli;
I will wear Patchouli;
I will get my belly-button pierced;
I will start smoking dope again;
I will buy a goat and call her, Felicity Kendall's Knickers.

Or I could buy these, and we could call them Felicity Kendall's Knickers.


You be the judge...

The Bikini Police... they live inside of my head

When I rolled out of bed at 0600 this morning, the Bikini Police were nowhere to be seen as I jumped into the first swimming costume my sleep-affected rummaging uncovered. It was a bikini... no worries, think I. Pulling on my shorts and t-shirt, I didn't give the bikini a second thought. But later, as I walked on the beach, the bikini rode up my arse, a tad annoying that. Consolatorily I think,

"Well, strictly speaking the bikini is not made for walking, the bikini is for swimming, oh and lounging... no worries."

Yeah. I finished my walk at the pool and started my laps (after discreetly retrieving the bikini from my arse, I'm good like that). But, as I swam, the bikini rode up my arse, more than a tad annoying that.

I finished my swim and lay down on my towel, to dry off in the sunshine, and my bikini rode up my arse, what the fuck? So I had a think about the bikini and what was with it and my arse. My mind searched back over the last few years and came up with the summer of 2001 as the last time I had actually worn that bikini. And suddenly, the riding of the bikini up my arse made all the sense in the world. I may weigh the same as I did in 2001, but obviously my arse is still suffering the effects of growing 2 kids (okay, my body grew them, not my arse, obviously, but I'm too tired to make the grammar work) and/or eating approximately 2 tonnes of chocolate over the past 5 years...

Bikini Police I command thee, do not forsake me again!

The Cohort

Okay, something weird is going on. In the grand scheme of things, I have not shagged that many guys. I find it strange that this afternoon, whilst hanging out in the quite streets of obscure suburbialand, I happened upon a guy I'd shagged (he was a dud), many years ago, in a location faraway. He was out for a stroll with his baby and his woman (she was quite cute BTW), lovely.

How fucking bizarre is it that I keep running into men I have shagged? I've been monogamous for a loooooonnnnnng time, and none of my past lovers are in my circle of friends these days. Running into these blokes is sheer coincidence, because it's not like the men I've shagged could be examined statistically and found to have significant correlation with either myself or each other, in terms of age, residence or employment. Their only common trait, as far as I can tell, is that I shagged them. Yeah gads! and there you have it, the cohort of men Callisto has shagged.



Tell me, does this ever happen to you?

"Is that bitch of yours dead yet?"

These were the first words out of my mouth when I ran into my cousin Simon, at a family function, circa 1990. Simon blinked at me for several seconds, it took a while for him to process the question. I guess he'd prepared a "Hi Callisto, I'm going great!" and he had to change gears in order to answer me.
"Er, yes she is" Simon replied slowly, his face going red. I could tell he wanted to add something like "You just can't let go of things can you," but his knowledge of my fondness for, a debate, shall we say, stopped him.

"Well, that is the best thing I've heard for a long time," I said smiling sweetly at Simon before searching the sea of relatives for an exit.

Four years earlier, my mother found Oscar, a young silver tabby, with piercing eyes, under her car on my 16th birthday. And in a strange move, she decided to take him home for me (probable motivation for this display of kindness: forgetting to get her only daughter a 16th birthday present). Oscar was a sweet-natured and very affectionate cat, he kept feline aloofness to a minimum. His fur was super-soft and sleek, I can still remember how it felt, if I close my eyes and imagine stroking his lithe little body.

And my little darling Moggy, so special, because of the way she had found me. I was riding my horse, along a fire trail in state forest, when I heard faint meows, from behind me. I turned the horse and saw this tiny, skinny, near-dead, kitten scrambling after us. She had been dumped, probably with other kittens, of which I found no trace, and she had rescued herself by finding me (well my horse at least). I picked her wretched little body up and put her under my t-shirt to get her home. I arrived there with scratched-up arms and belly, and one scared little tortoiseshell angel, with one heck of a survival instinct.

Moggy soon got plump and was growing into a beautiful cat, she had really lovely colouring; blue, cream and a hint of ginger. She was playful, and very attached to me. I used to sneak her and Oscar into my room at night (which was against the house rules). Where they would sleep in my cupboard, safely hidden away from prying ("Why do you come in without knocking?") parents' eyes.

On a beautiful, sunny morning, I woke and put the cats out of my bedroom window (sneaky). They played around in the sun on the verandah and I watched them for a while from my bed. My cousin Simon, a builder, was at our place working on a small job for my dad. Like so many tradesman, he took his dog with him to work, unfortunately.

I was on my way out of the house to catch the bus to school and I noticed his dog with something furry in her mouth. She was shaking her head from side to side, as dogs do when they have something to kill. It took a couple of seconds to realise that the something in her mouth was Moggy, but when I did I screamed out for my cousin and ran after the dog. The dog dropped Moggy when I yelled at her. There was a fair bit of blood, I gently picked up Moggy's little body and knew instantly that she was dead.

I was so angry with that dog, but rage is wasted on man's best friend, so I threw that anger at my cousin. As I cradled Moggy's body and ranted at Simon, (I think I called him an "inconsiderate fucking prick") I looked past him, and saw Oscar lying in the long, green grass at the base of the water tank. I ran to him but it was already too late for my little prince of a cat, his unforgetable eyes were open but they saw no more.

Two innocent little lives, snuffed out by another innocent, because in reality the dog just did what came naturally to her. Still, it was good to know that the bitch was dead.

Friends come, friends go

We had moved from our shoe-box with a view in Mosman, to a roomy two bedder near the beach so we could accommodate my expanding waistline. We made the move with a couple of months to spare before the baby was due, and I got down to the business of nesting, which for me meant disinfecting every fucking thing in the house and constructing the cot, on my own.

I used to pass her on the landing outside her door, a thin, dark-haired, old lady, and deaf, according to the body corporate know-it-all, but it was her smile that melted my heart. I guessed she was probably not really lonely, because I used to see her quite often with a man, who I assumed was her son. But she was always there each time I went outside, just waiting for a bit of human contact. We would smile at each other and comment on the weather as people who don't know each other do. Once, out of the blue, she asked if I knew what Warfarin was, which I did, so I knew she had trouble with her heart. She told me that the 'hospital Dr' had put her on it and that she hated it. She also hated the hospital, refusing to stay there even when doctors thought she should.

We talked a lot more from then on and I began to know her a little bit, her name was Daphne. I learned that even drought-breaking rain made her feel blue and I knew she had a grandson she was extremely proud of. She used to catch the bus to the shops and I offered to drive her if she ever needed a lift anywhere. On sunny days she would often be on her balcony in the afternoon sun, she had a way of leaning on the railing that made her look like she was in the first half of her life rather then the final stages. It was lovely getting to know this woman, hearing her stories about the birth of her own children and other snippets from her life. It was comforting to talk to someone about childbirth, because I had started to freak out a little over it.

As the due date of my baby came and went, each day she would pop up to see if I had 'gone' yet. Finally, I did go and 32 hours later I had my little boy. He became my whole world, like most first time mothers, I was totally focused on this new little being that was dependent on me entirely for his survival. Weeks went by in a blur of breastfeeding, shitty nappies and heart-stealing cuteness. I saw Daphne only a couple of times in those whirlwind weeks, she came up to meet the boy one morning and I promised that I would have her up for lunch soon.

When the boy was about 6 weeks old, we went on a holiday up the coast for a couple of weeks. After we came back, it took me a few days to realise that I had not seen Daphne. I ran into her son outside her place one day not long after, and I asked if Daphne was away. I could tell immediately by the look on his face, that she certainly was away and that she would never be coming back. She had died in the hospital she hated so much and was buried in the first week that we were away.

It may have been a short friendship, but it was one I won't forget. Some people do that to you, don't they?